Page 4 of Wolf of the Storm
At nine o'clock precisely, a car pulls up outside. I watch from the window as a thin, nervous-looking man in his fifties extracts himself from a sensible sedan. He carries a leather briefcase and keeps glancing at the house as if it might lunge at him.
I meet him at the door before he can knock.
"Miss Warren?" He offers a hand that's slightly damp. "Samuel Finch. We spoke on the phone."
"Mr. Finch. Please, come in."
He steps inside with visible reluctance, his eyes darting around the entrance hall. "I trust you weathered the storm all right? Quite dramatic for September, though we do get them. The island's position, you see, makes it vulnerable to...”
"The storm was fine," I say, cutting off what sounds like it could become a weather lecture. "I assume you've brought paperwork?"
We settle in the study, which gets decent morning light despite the overcast sky. Mr. Finch spreads documents across the desk with hands that aren't quite steady.
"The estate is straightforward, really," he says, not meeting my eyes. "Your aunt left everything to you—the house, its contents, and a modest bank account. About fifteen thousand pounds. She lived frugally." He pushes a document toward me. "This is the deed transfer. Once you sign, Clifftop House is legally yours."
I scan the document. It all seems standard enough. "Mr. Finch, can I ask you something?"
He goes very still. "Of course."
"How did my aunt die?"
Outside, a gull cries, sharp and mournful.
"It was an accident," he says finally. "She went walking on the cliffs one evening. The path can be treacherous, especially when wet. She must have slipped. They found her body at the base of the cliffs the next morning."
"But you said—on the phone, I think—you mentioned her heart?"
"Yes, well." He adjusts his glasses. "The coroner suggested she may have had a cardiac event that caused the fall. At her age, these things happen."
I lean back in my chair, studying him. "Which was it, Mr. Finch? Did she fall, or did she have a heart attack?"
"Does it matter?" His voice is sharper now, defensive. "She's gone either way."
"It matters if someone pushed her."
The words hang in the air. Mr. Finch's face goes pale.
"Miss Warren, I strongly advise you not to entertain such thoughts. Your aunt's death was thoroughly investigated. The police found no evidence of foul play. Stirring up trouble on the island by making wild accusations would be... unwise."
"Unwise how?"
He stands abruptly, gathering his papers with jerky movements. "This is a small community. Isolated. People here look after their own. Outsiders who cause problems tend to find themselves... unwelcome." He catches himself, forces a weak smile. "Not that there would be any actual danger, of course. But island life isn't for everyone. Most mainlanders find they're happier elsewhere."
"Is that a threat, Mr. Finch?"
"It's advice, Miss Warren. Friendly advice." He pulls out another document. "There's one more thing. Your aunt left specific instructions about the disposal of her personal effects.She wanted certain items donated to the historical society, others to be destroyed. There's a list."
I take the paper he offers. It's in Maureen's handwriting, dated two weeks before her death. Most items listed are innocuous—clothes, kitchen things, old furniture. But at the bottom, underlined three times:Journals to be destroyed by anyone other than my niece.
I look up at Mr. Finch. "Did you follow these instructions?"
"No. I haven't been through the house yet. I assumed you'd want to do that yourself." He's edging toward the door. "I really should be going. If you have any questions about the paperwork, you can reach me at my office."
"Wait." I stand, blocking his path. "You said people who cause problems find themselves unwelcome. Has there been trouble on the island? Other deaths, maybe? Unusual circumstances?"
His jaw tightens. "I'm a solicitor, Miss Warren, not a gossip columnist. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other appointments."
He's out the door before I can press him further. His car starts with a nervous rev of the engine. I watch from the window as he drives away too fast for the narrow road, gravel spraying from his tires.
